The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(39)

“You feel…good. God, Flynn, I want to come so badly.”

“Then come. Don’t hold back. Don’t stop. Rub your clit while I fill your pussy up with my come.”

“Oh God. Oh yes! Oh shit, I’m coming so hard, Flynn.”

Pearly fluid shoots from my dick onto my hand, and I bite into the flesh of my bottom lip to soften my groan. It’s guttural, and if I let it fly at full strength, it’s sure to pull her out of the perfect bliss of her postorgasmic haze.

That’s the last thing I want to do.

Because my wife is finally calm—free from anxiousness and content enough to rest. And that’s exactly where I’d like her to stay.

“Goodnight, Daisy,” I say softly into the speaker.

Her giggle is soft and satisfied. “Um… Goodnight, Flynn.”

Yeah, it is a fucking good night, indeed.





Wednesday, April 17th, New York

Flynn

“Can I get you boys anything else?” our waitress asks, and Rem flashes a friendly wink at her that makes me roll my eyes. He plays the part of a lothario pretty well, but I know in actuality that my brother Rem is nearly celibate. Okay, maybe not celibate per se, but he’s way less active than he likes to portray, and I know it’s because his past still cuts deeper than he’d prefer.

Even if he’s grown up since Charlotte left him at the altar, even if he knows now that she wasn’t the right fit for him, the mark of an event like that changes a man. Changes his perspective on the amount of effort on love that’s worth it.

And as far as Remy’s concerned, he keeps his levels pretty close to zero. For the last decade or so, it’s actually been the thing we have most in common—careful, methodical, transactional-style relationships.

It feels a little weird to be sitting across from him now, given the state of my arrangement with Daisy, almost as though the universe has shifted.

“I think we’re all set. Thanks, Carol.”

“All right, honey. Just holler if you need anything.”

Carol heads back toward the kitchen, and I shake my head on a chuckle. Apparently, my eldest brother has become a regular at Don’s Diner since I brought him here a couple of years ago, and I had no idea.

“What?”

“Pretty friendly with the waitstaff, eh?” I retort, and he flashes me a small grin.

“Don’s has the best burgers in Brooklyn.”

I raise my eyebrows pointedly. That’s exactly what I told him on our first visit, and he practically told me to fuck off.

My my, how the tide changes when fuckers learn to not be such snobs.

Brooklyn used to be borough non grata with Remy a couple years ago when he thought it was all hipsters and young twentysomethings, and now it’s one of his favorite parts of the city. It also just so happens to be the one area where I hold a lot of rental properties. I dove into this real estate market about fifteen years ago, when everything was just on the cusp of booming but you could still buy properties for relatively low prices. As a result, I got a leg up on a lot of the revitalization crowd, and my properties generate a substantial portion of my income.

“What have you been up to anyway?” he asks. “I feel like I haven’t talked to you since Vegas. Hell, I feel like I didn’t talk to you all that much in Vegas.”

Oh, you know, just sending in immigration applications for my wife—that you don’t know about—and making arrangements for her to move to New York so we can keep up our relationship fa?ade for the big interview in a few months…

“You were all too drunk in Vegas to talk clearly to anyone.” I shrug and make a point to change the topic of conversation to something that doesn’t make me have to lie to my brother. “How’s the market looking these days?”

“The market?” Rem looks up from the fresh plate of burger and fries the waitress just dropped off at our table, and his face turns amused. “Oh, so this lunch had stipulations.”

“Not stipulations,” I correct. “Multiple motivations.”

Rem laughs. “I should’ve known when you of all people suggested lunch, there was more to the story than shooting the shit.”

He’s not exactly wrong. Out of all of our siblings, I’m the least likely to make plans for lunch just to catch up. And it’s not because I don’t like spending time with my brothers and sister—I do. They’re my favorite people I know, actually. I just fucking hate small talk.

“I take it you’ve got some profits you’re wanting to dump?” he asks around a bite of French fries.

“Possibly.”

“How much are we talking?”

I pull my cell out of my pocket and shoot my accountant a quick message.

Me: What’s our excess for 2nd quarter?

He gets back to me pretty quickly.

Allen: $500,000.

I meet Rem’s eyes. “A decent amount.”

He sighs. “A decent amount can be anything, you fuck. How many figures we talking? Four, five, six?”

“Six.”

“Damn, bro. I should’ve invested in real estate when you told me to.”

I grin, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t think I’d dump it all in the market right now,” he says, switching from teasing brother to sage investor. If anyone knows the stock market, it’s Rem. “How much risk do you want to take with it?”